


May I Have This Dance

by AreYouReady



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: (sorta) - Freeform, Character Death is Only Mentioned, Dancing, F/M, Fluff, Mentions of Space Diplomacy, Post-Canon, Set Twelve Years After ST: Nemesis, Worf POV, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 09:21:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8661970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AreYouReady/pseuds/AreYouReady
Summary: Worf runs into an old... colleague at a diplomatic function. They agree that it's been a long time.





	

Worf watched the throng of sentients, feeling the thin stem of his champagne flute cold between his thumb and forefinger and crossing his legs. He was thankful that the night was young; as it got later, diplomatic function or no diplomatic function, the crowd was apt to get rowdier, and worse, louder. As it stood, he would probably be able to slip out before that happened, and the soft ambiance of Terran music, stately dancing, and well-trimmed garden was somewhat soothing for now, even hypnotic.

He was glad to spend most of his time as ambassador on Qo'noS, not least because it kept him away from these sorts of functions. He prided himself on being a good ambassador between the Federation and the Empire, but he was under no illusion that he was a traditional diplomat. He had difficulty with the polite doubletalk and pointless gatherings required of him simply as a member of humanoid society, he wouldn’t have been able to _stand_ the triple dosage of both that a normal approach to his occupation required.

This was why he spent the vast majority of his time among his own people. On Qo’noS, he could prove himself worthy on targ hunts and in the practice fields, and others would leave him mostly to his own devices unless he was actually needed. He had no need to charm and flatter his way through encounters with every bumbling bureaucrat the Empire could provide, he already had their respect. Charm and flattery had no place in the empire. But they were the most integral characteristics of an event such as this.

However, he was obliged to attend this one. Every ten years, the Federation held a festival, celebrating its own founding. It was traditional that Federation citizens outside the bordersreturn home on these occasions, and far from being exempt, it was practically required that diplomats uphold this tradition. It was, in his experience, also traditional for every Starfleet admiral or Federation representative with any kind of foreign political interests to invite the whole cadre of returning ambassadors to a series of interminable parties. At least, that was what happened in 2381, his first Federation Anniversary as Ambassador, and it certainly looked like the same thing was shaping up to happen now, ten years later.

Still, here at the first gathering of what he was sure would be many, Worf was nearly content. No one had seemed overly eager to talk to him, and the few he had spoken to had been engaging enough to forgive them the sin of forcing interaction out of him. He was still absentmindedly considering the crop-sharing problem that one Andorian’s long and involved story had hinged upon, trying to see if he could have solved it another way. So far, he had nothing.

“There’s a familiar face!” cried a familiar voice. The declaration was followed by a familiar laugh, rich and full, ringing like glass and dark like mahogany. Worf turned his head and shifted in his chair.

“Coun- Ambassador,” he greeted Deanna Troi, eyeing the diplomatic insignia on her uniform. Caught between flinching away from her knowing smile, and leaning into her familiar presence, he ended up frozen in place, made a statue by her gaze.

“Hello Worf,” she smiled, her Betazoid accent slowing and rounding the sharp edges of his name. She set herself down upon one of the delicate metal chairs placed around the table he occupied, the first person who had been bold enough to do so that evening.

“It has been a long time,” he said. He did not look directly at her, but kept her in the corner of his eye. She did the same, but scooted her chair closer, until they sat next to each other. What an infuriating woman. It seemed she still knew exactly what to do in every situation.

“Aren’t you going to ask me how I’ve been?” she asked. She was laughing at him, it was in her voice. She knew him far better than was comfortable.

He carefully avoided searching out his… colleagues from Starfleet assignments when news came in from the Federation. He still kept his eye on political situations, but otherwise made every attempt to cut himself off from the information flow. He didn’t keep up with those from the _Enterprise_ because, well, quite frankly, his last memories of them reeked of tragedy. One of his dearest… colleagues had been lost on that mission, and the last time he’d seen his _Enterprise_ crewmates all their interactions had been shadowed by the absence of the android.

As for his colleagues from DS9… well, any time he heard news of them, he found himself compelled to check up on a certain young counselor. He recognized that the emotions that underlay the habit dishonored both the young Ezri Dax and the memory of Jadzia, and he tried not to engage with them.

“…How have you been, Ambassador Troi?” he asked her at last.

“I’ve been… many things. It’s been nearly twelve years, Worf, a person feels all sorts of things in twelve years. Mostly, though, I’ve been lovely.” She winked at him, turning to catch his eye, and as she stopped keeping her gaze oblique, he felt compelled to do the same.

“I see,” he said. Sitting so close, he was forced to take in her face. Crow’s feet were just beginning to crinkle the sides of her eyes; a Betazoid of her age should still be in the middle of her prime, but it seemed Deanna’s human ancestry was speeding the wear of life on her body. In her clothing, too, she took on humanity, eschewing the Betazoid frills her mother favored for the Starfleet dress uniform that was her right. It was interesting that she chose to remind those around her of her military experience, even if she, as an official diplomat, was no longer an active member of Starfleet. He noticed that the central stripe of her uniform was white, not gray, meaning that before she began meddling in interstellar politics, she had ascended to at least the rank of captain. He glanced almost involuntarily down at his own gray stripe, the most visible part of his uniform under his open Klingon ceremonial robe.

“Admiral Picard is engaged,” she said, “to Beverly, actually. Geordi is, too, to a man named Jacob that he met a few years ago.” The crow’s feet got more pronounced when she smiled.

“What of Commander Riker?” he asked, noticing her careful omission. Her smile widened, but it no longer reached her eyes.

“Will and I got divorced a few years ago.” Her tone was light, but the lightness was forced. It also didn’t invite further inquiry. Old hurt underlay the words like black tree roots. 

“I am sorry,” he said. He wasn’t sure what else to add. She took his hand and squeezed it, nonverbal gratitude for the sentiment, and her smile reached her eyes again.

They sat like that for many minutes, as music washed over them and dancers stepped around them. She began to lean her head on his shoulder, and he let her, for some reason he did not know. But then she seemed to shake herself, and rose from beside him. The night had grown chilly around him, and he immediately missed her warm presence. But she did not relinquish his hand. Instead, she turned to him. Her voice was soft like water as she spoke.

“Mr. Worf, may I have this dance?”


End file.
